Holy Land
by Mechabeira
Summary: "I know they seem quaint or old-fashioned or foolish, but they are my people, Tony. They are a part of who I am and where I come from." Casefile. TZ. On temporary hiatus.
1. HaPerek HaRishon

**Hello, gentle readers. I needed the chance to stretch a bit and this is what happened. No, I haven't forgotten my other stories-not even a little. I just wanted to try out something new. This will be shorter than my other works, sparer, and wildly different. **

**Current season. Teeny-ish spoilers for "Aliyah," "Truth and Consequences," "Shabbat Shalom," "Shiva," and maybe something else that I am forgetting. Apologies for that.**

**Casefile. **

**Love. To you, that is. Tray tables and seat backs in their upright and locked positions? Good. Safety first. xoxo**

**. . . .**

They'd been summoned, he and Ziva. Summoned to Vance's office like commoners to the king's court. Like jesters. Tony suppresses the urge to crack a joke and the toothpick moved left-to-right.

"I got a dead Marine in Jerusalem."

Jerusalem. A walled city. Is that where she is from? Hm. Maybe. "And you're sending us?" he asks flatly. He will not be a jackass this time.

"You've been _requested _by the acting director of Mossad. A transport flight leaves Norfolk in three hours. Go home and pack a bag. I'm faxing the paperwork over now."

Ziva turns without a word and marches out. She is stiff, almost angry. She yanks her bag from behind her desk and storms to the elevator without a word.

Tim looks up. "Sick day?"

Tony wants to shield her from him. "Assignment in Israel. See ya, Probie."

She holds the door but won't look at him. He lets their shoulders bump. "Mixed feelings, huh?"

She shrugs and fishes for her car keys. He is reminded without warning that she has very recently built a new life from the foundation up.

"Pick me up?" she requests quietly.

He nods and nods. "Sure. An hour?"

She smiles, gets in her tiny red car, and zooms away.

. . . .

Nine hours. Turbulence. A C-130 jumpseat no bigger than a box of cereal. They touch down none-too-gently and Tony feels like his five lowest vertebrae are made of ground lightbulbs. He groans.

Ziva springs out of her seat and down the ramp. At some point she has tied her hair up in a tight ponytail but the stiff desert wind blows a few strands loose and they whip around her face. He follows with both of their bags.

The driver does not kiss her cheek. She slides into the back seat of his Towncar and he gets in the other side. The leather seats are _plush_ beneath his very sore behind. He groans again and she glares. "It was not _that_ bad, Tony."

"I don't have your nerves of steel," he retorts peevishly. Something dark move across her features. "But I wish I did," he amends, and she smiles weakly.

"No," she whispers. "You do not."

. . . .

They are taken to Jerusalem's park-like German Colony. The streets are narrow. Palm trees rustle in the breeze and Tony feels very foreign as he rises from the Towncar's back seat. The buildings are subtle stone with wrought-iron balconies. Old. Expensive.

Ziva leads him through the afternoon sunlight into a cool, shaded courtyard. The doors are all green. She chooses one at random, it seems, and a man in maintenance clothes unlocks it for her.

Coffee and pastries are waiting on a low marble table. She tisks when he eats two of them in big bites.

"What?" he defends, mouth full. "I'm hungry."

"We are not here on vacation." She glides off to unpack.

There is one bedroom and two iron beds. The mattress is soft when he plunks down. Ziva shakes her head. "Not now."

He has time only to shed his jacket when the front door swings open and two men enter. One wears a knit yarmulke. They kiss Ziva's hands, her cheeks, offer condolences for her father. They've brought gifts. Four gold bracelets and a watch are opened before her.

She is disdainful, even aggravated. "What do you want?"

The one in the skullcap sits on a low divan in front of her. _All_ the furniture is low, Tony notices. He wonders if there is a cobra in a basket somewhere.

"Our acting director is struggling with communication and tactical planning," he says. He is smooth but straightforward. "Yosef and I are here to ask for your help."

Ziva scoffs. "Mossad is not my problem."

The other one is nervous, twitchy. He is not old enough to shave. "We have a dead American soldier in our morgue," he says. "Eyewitness accounts say a Purim celebration in the Geula neighborhood got out of hand. There was a fistfight and gunshots. Few people came forward. They were worried—children were present."

She shakes her head, incredulous. "A drunken holiday brawl is not Mossad business. You are covering something. Tell me now or leave."

Yarmulke leans forward. "The _Sikrikim_ are Mossad business, Ziva."

His conspiratorial whisper makes Tony want to punch his lights out. "Who the hell are they and why aren't we at a crime scene?"

"All the evidence has been collected and the scene released," Baby Face says. "You cannot shut down a busy intersection three weeks before Pesach."

Exhaustion nearly sweeps him out of his chair. "What is _pay-suck _besides income tax and why do we need to care about it? This. Is. A. _Murder. Investigation._"

Yarmulke gives him a look. "_Pesach _is Passover. In an Ultra-Orthodox neighborhood like Geula or Mea Shearim it requires very serious and detailed preparation." He hands her a folder. "Here is what you'll need. We will see you this evening."

They leave. Ziva rises and goes to the bedroom only to emerge a moment later having traded her jeans and button-down for a knee-length skirt and twinset. The fabric looks soft. Tony wants to touch it.

"You need to change," she says.

He looks down at his jeans and t-shirt. "Why?"

"Because you do. Put on dark trousers and a dress shirt. And this."She hands him a disc of floppy dark velvet. Her eyes are flat brown. Is she angry? He can't tell. "There are hairpins on the dresser."

. . . .

She warns him about the crowds, about the rudeness, about the drivers and taxis and butcher shops, but she does not warn him about the children. Packs of them. Everywhere. Little boys dash between shoppers, between cars, over dips in the narrow, dusty sidewalks. They breeze past him with long sidecurls flying in the wind. A few hold their skullcaps on with one hand.

"Isn't it a school day?" he complains.

Ziva cocks her head, thinking. "It is probably a half-day for _cheder_ boys. The girls are at home helping to prepare for the holiday."

Did he step back into 1950? "And the boys are allowed to run amok?"

She shrugs. "They sit in _cheder_ all day every day."

"Did you attend one of these _kkkkhhhay-durs?"_

She is studying, studying, eyes sharp and narrowed. "Yes, for a while."

"What happened?"

"I got kicked out."

He laughs. "Imagine my surprise."

An odd, hurt look crosses her face. He is immediately sorry. "It is what it is, Tony. Here is our crime scene."

The ribbon tape has been torn down. Everything is the color of sand except for a sign proclaiming _women in modest dress only _in both Hebrew (he thinks) and English. There are two brown-er splotches on the ground. Blood, long-dried.

"When did this happen?" he asks. Their evidence is worthless.

"Purim," she muses, scanning walls.

Their 'busy intersection' is a wide spot in a shopping district of skinny, winding streets. He itches in his dress clothes. A religious man behind a storefront counter eyes his hair. He pats it down self-consciously.

"_POOR-eem. Pour-EEM. _When was that?" Tony feels whiny. He wants a steak and a shower.

"A month ago."

He snarls like a dog. Two small boys stop and stare. "A _month_ ago? And they just called us in yesterday?!_"_

Ziva crouches modestly in her skirt and sweater. She turns on the balls of her feet to look at him. "My father _died_ just before that, Tony. They are still...coping."

He wants to pummel himself á la Jim Carrey in _Liar Liar_. "Oh," he chokes. "Sorry."

She peers between cobblestones. That hurt look returns for a split-second. "It is ok. I am the only one responsible for knowing these things."

He crouches beside her. The yarmulke is heavy on his head. "No, you're not."

. . . .

No one knows their dead Marine PFC. No one in Geula, anyway. They cross a wide avenue into another neighborhood and the bustle becomes angrier and even more insistent. A woman deliberately bumps Ziva and scowls at her. They exchange words.

Tony is hot and prickly. He wants to take a nap. "What did she want?"

"I am not wearing tights. She thinks it's a problem."

He turns. The bumping lady is obviously gossiping about them with another woman. They could be interchangeable—black headscarf, shapeless, colorless blouse, long dark skirt. The both wear thick black stockings and mannish shoes. He blinks. They look like elderly nuns but have smooth makeup-less faces. Neither of them are yet forty.

"What did you say?"

"That my _rav_ permits bare legs as long as my skirt is _tznius_."

He is confused and stops for a moment among more running boys. He has to trot to catch up—she is bound for a bookstore at the edge of a square.

"What's a _ruv_ and why do you have one?"

"A rabbi. One I go to for religious advice."

He is not happy with her answer. "Like a guru? And why didn't I know this before?"

"I don't have a _rav,_" she whispers harshly. A few people turn and stare. They are making a spectacle. "I just said that to shut her up."

She steps away from him and calls to a young man in religious garb—dark pants, a white shirt, a velvet yarmulke. There are strings hanging from his waistband. She implores him, holding out the photo, but he won't take it from her.

"I do not know him," he says. His voice is high and nasal. "But I can ask in my _beis medresh_. Can I take this?"

"Yes."

"Ok," he nods. He is pale, bookish. His glasses slide down his nose and he jabs them back up. Another boy—they are not adults—sidles up and smiles. "How do you know Mordechai? Where is he? I haven't seen him in weeks."

"His name is Michael Zeller," Tony interjects. "He was a United States Marine. He was killed in a brawl across the street."

The boys mutter something in Hebrew. Ziva nods. "Mordechai was his Hebrew name?" she asks. "He was becoming...more observant?"

"_Yeh_," mutters one of the boys. "He was learning with Rabbi Meir. I'd say talk to him, but he only has _yichud_ with women on Tuesdays from twelve to two." He sweeps his hand up and down. "You should put on something a little more _tznius _before you see him."

Ziva only smiles and thanks him. Tony scowls as they stride away. "You let some buck-tooth bookworm tell you how to dress?"

"It is his _rebbe_, Tony. I would not disrespect him."

"Then why did you tell off that old lady?"

"It was different, Tony." She smiles and it is beautiful in the waning afternoon light. "Are you getting hungry?"

"Yes," he pouts.

"Come with me. I know a place you would enjoy."

She takes him to a café with white tiles on the floor and walls. The owner, a mustachioed man with warm brown skin, recognizes Ziva and waves. They sit. Plates of grilled meat and bread arrive, then pickled vegetables, then sodas and water. The waitress has a gold tooth. She looks like an extra from _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_.

"How'd you get kicked out of school?"

Ziva chews slowly and swallows, eyes on him. "Why do you want to know?"

He scoffs. "Why wouldn't I?"

She goes quiet for a while. The food is amazing. He stuffs himself and waits.

"I was in first grade," she finally says. "And we were learning about Pesach. Passover. It is coming soon. We were supposed to learn all about _urchatz—_it's a type of ritual hand-washing—and I was sent to the school basement to get a basin." She sips water. "There had been airstrikes all week and...I refused to go. The rabbi who taught my class sent me to the back of the room for the rest of the day. He said I did not deserve the honor of helping the teacher."

He moves a wad of pita into his cheek with his tongue. "They kicked you out for _that?_"

She nodded. "Religious Zionist _chedarim_ are competitive. I am certain there was another student waiting to take my place."

Tony pushes aside a plate of cucumber slices. He was no longer hungry. "That sounds like total crap, Ziva."

She shrugs and switches water for a cup of mint tea. A tiny smile plays across her face. "I wasn't so upset. I went to a school that was closer to home. I had friends there. It was better."

He wants to offer something—consolation, commiseration, a hug—but there is a rush of noise and a truck pulls up in front of the restaurant. Something bearing the IDF logo is rolled off the back. It is some kind of robot. Ayoung soldier in combat dress operates it with a remote.

"The hell...?"

Ziva shrugs. "Someone has forgotten a briefcase in the park. They're going to blow it up."

"Blow it _up_?"

"Or shoot it."

He looks around. A few old men play dominoes, a young couple trade cell phones and laugh, and one of the soldiers from the truck orders a plate of food to go. He drops his voice to a whisper. "Are you kidding me?"

Ziva shrugs again. "Too many bombings here. Better to err on the side of caution."

"What if it's just a business proposal or a term paper?"

She holds her tea with both hands. Her nails are neat and even. "Then that person should not have been so careless."

. . . .

Tony is exhausted by eighteen-hundred IST. Jetlagged, over-full, he drags his feet across town as Ziva leads him back to their borrowed apartment in the German Colony. Baby Face and Yarmulke are waiting for them. He wants to cry.

"What?" he simpers.

Baby Face puts his hands out. "What did you find?"

"_Baalei Teshuva_," Ziva says. "Studying with the Brisker Rebbe in Mea Shearim. I see him for private audience on Tuesday."

They nod, pleased. Tony wants to sleep. He also wants them to speak real English, for crying out loud.

Yarmulke leans back. "There is plenty to do in the meantime. Can we interest you in a tour of the redesigned Mossad headquarters, Ziva?"

She throws the file on the low table. "No, you cannot. I do not know why you are bothering me about this. I am not Israeli. I am not Mossad. I am not interested in being either of those things again, so please just stiff it."

"She means _stuff it_," he translates. It is not lost on him that Tony is interpreting American idioms to Israelis _from_ an Israeli. "Why are you so keen on her, anyway?"

Ziva's nostrils flare and she stands, arms crossed. "Because the agency is falling apart. My father was outside his purview when he died and they don't know how to deal with that, nor the consequences of his actions." She wheels on Yarmulke and Baby Face. "My life—my apartment, my car, my job, my _cat_—they are all back in the U.S. Leave me alone."

Baby Face opens a satchel and pulls out stacks of velvet jewelry boxes. "Your _yichus _is precious, Ziva. Your mother's—"

"Shut up," she snarls. "I said I did not want it. I will let you know when I have more intel. Go."

They rise and leave. Ziva stomps across the marble floor to the bedroom.

"You have a cat?" he calls.

"No, but if I did, it would be more important than _them_." She appears in the threshold, furious. Her dark eyes are hard. "I am going to take a shower."

He is not afraid of her. "Ok," he replies.

The door slams. Pipes scream. There is no television in the apartment, so nothing hides the noise. He paces. The place is small but not uncomfortable. He wonders who owns it.

She returns soundlessly, peering over his shoulder at the street outside. More small boys are running. Two ride skateboards. Tony smirks. "Were you one of those rowdy kids?"

She is wistful but comfortable in thin cotton pajamas. More clothing he wants to touch. "No," she sighs. "There wasn't time. If I wasn't in school then I was training with my father or teachers. Languages, martial arts, weapons skills...I was busy."

"How old were you when you started training?"

She replies so simply he wants to hold her. "Eight."

"Damn."

She looks at him with big, dark eyes. "You were in boarding school by that age."

He wants to laugh at her but can't. "I was playing basketball and pulling pranks on nuns, not learning how to fight for my life."

She hums and looks away. "Perhaps I will go to bed."

He gathers clothes, bound for the shower, and she sits on the bed nearest the window. She is protecting him. He lets her. "What's the plan for tomorrow?"

Ziva looks uncertain. Not uncertain. S_hy_. "I want to go to the _Kotel_ in the morning," she admits. "It is the thirty-day anniversary of my father's death. The _shloshim_."

"What's a _cuttle_ and where do we find one?"

"The _Kotel_. The Western Wall. The only remnant of the holy temple built by King David and King Solomon. It is one of the most sacred places in the world. I want to go there for him. He would have wanted it."

"Ok." Feeling dumb makes him tired. "Can I go with you?"

"Yes," she grants. Her eyelids are drooping.

But she is not asleep when he comes out of the shower—the beautiful, marble-and-glass shower—in cotton pants and a t-shirt. She is lying on her side watching him. The light is dim. He smiles at her. "I'm shocked you're not sawing logs, Zee-vah."

She gives him a shy, sleepy smile. "It is strange here. I have always felt like an outsider but this is...different. More complicated."

He stretches out. The bed is heavenly. "Coulda fooled me. You folded right in with the huddled masses."

"It's my training."

"It's your home."

She props herself on one hand. "No, it is not."

"Sure seems like it. The way you talked to those people—and not just the language—you were one of them. You _are_ one of them."

She chuckles. It is a sweet, husky sound. He loves it. "I am Jewish, Tony, and so are the people we spoke with today. There are certain laws and customs that are innate to me the way they are to them. I may not be religious now, but I was in childhood and those things are not forgotten so easily."

"Did you like, keep kosher and stuff?"

"Yes, all of it."

He feels odd and hollow. "When did you stop?"

Ziva examines her fingernails. "When my mother died."

"Do you miss her?"

"I miss the life I had with her."

She means a life away from Eli David. "What's _yichus_?" he asks.

She smirks. "Lineage. There are many people here who think I have betrayed my family for not following in my father's footsteps."

"I don't."

She nods. Her hair dampens the pillowcase. "Because you saw my father for what he _was_, Tony, not for what he _represented_."

"Because I see _you_," he corrects. Ziva draws her knees to her chest. He slides beneath his own blankets. "Goodnight, Ziva."

"_Laila tov_," she whispers.

. . . .

She has a nightmare. He comforts her. Her skin is warm and damp. He brushes her hair back. "It's just a dream."

He expects her to say, _no, it isn't, _but she nods and swallows. "I know."

He gets her a glass of water. "You ok?"

"Yes."

He threads their fingers together. "This place has much more of an effect on you than you're letting on."

She gulps water with unladylike noises. He takes a chance and strokes her cheek. Ziva leans into him and closes her eyes. His heart flutters.

"I did not expect it."

"No one does."

"I did not want it."

"No one does."

She peers at him from the pillow. "You will come with me to the Kotel tomorrow, yes?"

He smiles, warm and content. "Yes."

. . . .

The Western Wall is astounding. Over a hundred feet high, constructed entirely of white limestone, it takes on the rising sun and glows. Tony is not a religious man, but even he recognizes that there is something entirely holy about the place. He is awed by the dimensions and awed by the crowd. Jerusalem, it seems, is a city of early birds.

Ziva finishes her prayers quickly. She kisses the book she read from and lays it on a table. This is a synagogue, he has been told, and it is synagogue property.

Her smile is calm. "Breakfast?"

He agrees. They walk even more winding, narrow streets to another white-tiled restaurant, where the eat eggs in tomato sauce amid students and commuters. It is the first meal she seems to enjoy. He is unfamiliar with the flavors—cumin, maybe, and lots of vegetables—but thinks it's ok. His phone chirps and he answers it with a roll of his eyes; he hasn't had enough coffee.

It's McGee. "I got credit card statements," he says without greeting. "Our dead PFC was donating an awful lot of money to religious institutions."

"Which ones?"

There is clicking in the background. "I don't know that I can pronounce these correctly."

Tony grows impatient. A server pours him a second cup of coffee and he nods his gratitude. "_Try_, McGoogle. I don't have all day." Ziva frowns. She doesn't like it when he's mean to Tim.

"Edah HaHareidit and Mishkenot HaRo'im."

He jots it down on a napkin and pushes it across the table. Ziva's frown deepens. She shakes her head. He hangs up on Tim in the middle of some diatribe about credit card fraud or weasel fur.

"Who are_ ay-duh ha-hairy-deet?"_

"The Chareidi Communal Organization. They offer community services to the ultra-orthodox in Mea Shearim and other neighborhoods, but they're most famous for their anti-Zionist philosophies."

"If they're anti-Zionest then why do they live in Jerusalem?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "They think the modern state of Israel is a desecration of God's name. It's complicated."

He smirked. "Well, religion has started a lot of wars. I'm sure your father loved them."

She rolled her eyes. "A thorn in his side. The _Sikrikim_, however, are funded by Edah HaChareidit. Moshe and Yosef mentioned them yesterday. They're a push by citizens to have them labeled a terrorist group because of their violent protests and thuggish behavior."

"_Thuggish behavior_ like fistfights on _POOR-EEM_?"

"Purim," she corrects. She looks irritated. "Fistfights, bullying, vandalism. They harassed a schoolgirl in Beit Shemesh a few years ago for not dressing according to _their_ standard of modesty. They threw rocks at her, spat on her, called her a whore." She looked at him with wide, angry eyes. "An eight-year-old."

His stomach sours around the strong coffee and tomatoes. He does not like men who prey on children. "Sounds like we might need to pay them a visit about PFC Michael Zeller."

"No," she said simply. "They're the religious mafia, Tony."

He gives her his best Brando. _The Godfather_. "Nobody knows nothin'."

She gave him a tiny, wry smile. "No, but we should start with the Edah. We know that's where Zeller's money was going."

Rush hour is over. The restaurant is quiet. Only one other couple share a table. The rest have been wiped clean, the chairs pushed in. Ziva's hair is loose around her face and she is part of the scenery. A beautiful part of the scenery, but still—she belongs here. He does not and it is strange and painful.

"Should we go there now?"

"No," she says quiet, looking around. "We are not dressed."

He looks down at his chinos and cotton shirt. "Huh?"

She shakes her head and looks at her own casual cotton attire. "No, we are not dressed properly. These are people who value formality and ritual, Tony."

He _really_ does not want to put on dress clothes again. "I'm not interested in playing by their rules."

Her features sharpen. "Then you are not interested in solving this murder."

Since when is she so touchy? "All _right_," he relents. "Let's put on our finery. God forbid this _Ay-dah_ know we're only human."

She is further incensed and jabs him in the chest once they're outside. "I know it is easy to poke fun," she spits. "I know they seem quaint or old-fashioned or foolish but they are my _people, _Tony. They are a part of who I am and where I come from, so _please_ keep your relentless commentary _to yourself._"

She moves ahead of him. He feels like a cad but cannot shake the sense that he is right. "Zee-vah," he cajoles. "Do you hear yourself defending the people who threw stones at a little girl? Now this might be a stretch, but do they sound any different than the Taliban or any other terrorist group who rape and pillage and plunder in the name of faith? They don't think Israel—or Jews for that matter—should exist. They're the same people who set up a camp in Somalia and—"

Ziva ignores him and steps into the street. A cab screeches to a halt and she pounds on the hood, scolding the driver. He shouts back and she kicks in the passenger side headlight before stalking away.

Tony is torn between running after her and paying the man for the damage, but he doesn't speak either of their languages. He stands in the street, gaping, confused. The taxi speeds off. He catches sight of Ziva; she is a block away, back stiff under her light jacket, hair wild in the hot Jerusalem wind.


	2. Perek Sheni

**Disclaimer: not mine**

**Spoilers: none**

**Thanks: Amilyn, Chemmie, Girleffect**

**Sorry: for the wait.**

**. . . .**

The waiting room at _Edah HaHareidit_ headquarters is crowded. It smells like herring and old books. Everyone is pushing, demanding. Tony finds a row of unoccupied chairs and sits, sighs, tries to look casual. He is hot and sore and jetlagged. He wants to go home, eat a cheeseburger, and fall asleep in front of _The Abyss_.

Ziva has charged ahead, though, elbowing through the crowd in a long, printed skirt and modest blouse, her hair hidden in a thin scarf shot through with silver threads. Tony smiles to himself. Her body is a secret beneath all that fabric. He happens to think secrets can be very, very sexy.

"Hey," someone says. It's the first English he's heard since they got here. "You lost?"

Tony looks up. There is a kid standing before him. Nineteen. Pudgy. Unshaven. His white shirt and black pants are rumpled but he is smiling and holding a box. "No, he answers slowly.

"Who you waiting for?"

He points at Ziva, who is speaking urgently to a woman behind a battered desk.

"Oh. That could take a while. Want some cake?"

Cake? Cake sounds ok. He nods.

The kid sits down. "I'm just waiting for some paperwork before I head back to the _beis medresh_." He opens the bakery box. Inside is a perfect chocolate bundt cake. Tony's mouth waters.

"What's your name?" he asks. He's going to get _cake_, after all.

"Leibel. You?"

"Tony."

The kid tears them each a hunk of cake. "Like Tony Montana? _Say hello to my little friend!_"

The cake is delicious—dense, moist, not too sweet—but he stops chewing and stares. Did this fat, bookish mama's boy just quote _Scarface?_

"I like movies," Leibel continues. "Don't tell my _rebbes_, though. They'll kick me out of _yeshiva_."

Tony eats another bite. "Bet your parents would be disappointed."

He shrugs. "They want me to learn with the Karliner _rebbe_, become a Karliner _c__hasid_. I tell them, 'I don't belong to no _rebbe_. I belong only to Hashem. You know?"

"You rebel."

He shrugs again. "I'm on the _derech_. I eat kosher food, learn Torah, _daven_ when I'm supposed to. I'm no _freierman_, you know? I'm not out eating pig and driving on Shabbos."

Something about his argument makes sense. Tony nods. "I hear ya."

"I am sure you do," Ziva interjects. She is standing before him with hand on her slim hip. There is a fat folder under her other arm. "It is time to go."

Leibel hands him another hunk of cake. "Here. You might need this for later."

Tony follows her down a breezeway and into a parking lot. The dumpsters are overflowing. The smell of rotting garbage makes him gag. Ziva is unfazed. "Did you have a nice playdate, Tony?"

"_He_ sat next to _me_," he carps back. "And he had cake."

"I told you not to speak to anyone."

"Uh-uh," he scoffs. "You said don't talk to _women_. Leibel may not be a man, but he is definitely not a woman."

He can smell her anger building, building. It is a pyramid of logs and rolled newspaper and he has just touched it with a match. They cross busy Emek Refaim Avenue and she turns, abruptly, and shoves him. "You are _useless_! I wish you had stayed home!"

"Wasn't my choice, sweet cheeks."

She shoves him again and again. He stumbles at first, but catches her hands on the third try. "You gonna take me out?" he sneers, offended and angry. "Jam your gun in my face? I'm your partn-"

He is down before the word leaves his mouth. She leans over him. Cool. Dangerous. "If you are my partner," she says lowly. "Then you need to act like it."

. . . .

She ignores him for a while, reads the information from the _Edah_, emails (he assumes) McGee, speaks soft, urgent Hebrew into the telephone. He grows heavy with fatigue until, at almost fifteen-hundred, he rises and stretches. "Think I might catch a nap. I can assume something's gonna go down this evening?"

Ziva looks away from her laptop. "_Go down_?"

He yawns aloud. "Baby Face...Yarmulke...we'll be seeing them later?"

She pinches the skin between her brows. "Yes, Tony. Yosef and Moshe will be here later."

"Wanna update me before they get here?"

She shoots him a Look. "Do you _care_?"

He is stung and it _hurts_. "Yeah, I _care_, Ziva."

Her glare softens the tiniest bit. "I found out where PFC Michael Zellers was studying. It's a yeshiva associated with the _Edah HaHareidit_ designed to help people become more religious."

He snaps his fingers. "Wait. There's a word for that—_ballet_-something."

"_Ba'alei teshuva_. People with secular upbringings who become Jewishly observant later in life."

"So he was on his way to like, keeping kosher and stuff?"

"Or he was already keeping kosher and growing in other ways."

Tony nods. He feels a little less stupid and irritable. "How'd you get that info?"

Ziva opens her mouth, hesitates, then speaks. She will not look at him. "I told them we were _olim_—immigrants from the US—and you needed a place to study. I told her you were friends with Zellers and wanted to be his study partner. She looked up his records and found him at _Ohr Somayach_."

He picks up the file she was given at the _Edah_. In it are brochures from the place with words like _Torah-true lifestyle _and _Renewal Program _and _Shoresh Skill-Building_. The pictures are of young men dressed like Leibel the Cake Boy—dark pants and white shirts, velvet skullcaps. He flips past it to a few charity forms in Hebrew, English, Russian, and French. One makes him pause.

"_Sheba_ IVF Clinic? Really?"

Ziva looks flustered. He smirks inwardly. _Gotcha_.

"She asked if we needed _cheder_ tuition vouchers," she says, and there is a stumble in her voice. "When I said no, she gave me that. I did not...Tony, you have to unders—"

"You told her we were married."

"They are _chareidi_, Tony. They would not acce—"

Now it's _his_ turn to get mad and it feels awesome. "You told her we were _married_. Didn't she bother to look for a ring?"

She rises and steps close to him. "_I did not have a choice!" _she shouts. Her voice rings against the bare walls and marble floor. "She would not have been so forthcoming with me. She would not have spared me a _glance_, Tony. Do you not _understand?!_"

He stands down, but barely. "I thought they were 'your people,'" he sighs, and rubs his head. He is exhausted. "You ok wi—"

"Go," she says simply. She sits down again at the laptop. "Go sleep. I will wake you in a while."

. . . .

He sleeps hard and wakes slowly, hearing soft shirring noises long before he pries his gluey eyelids open. A zipper, the slap of bare feet, and then he takes a peek. Ziva is changing her clothes. She is bare to the waist, having already replaced her long skirt with a pair of lightweight trousers. Her bra is black and lacy. _Turn around_, he begs silently. _Please, please just once—_

"You should not stare, Tony," she says quietly.

Damn her ninja senses. He plays dead.

"I know you are not asleep."

He opens his eyes again and gives a small smile. "You still ready to kill me?"

Her features do not sharpen, but she quirks an eyebrow. "Not as much. Yosef and Moshe will be here soon. You should get up." She cocks her head a tiny, tiny bit. "And put on some pants."

. . . .

Baby Face and Yarmulke arrive just after dark. They sit on the sofa like a couple of crows and pull velvet boxes from a knapsack. Jewelry. Gold bangles, a few diamonds, some polished stone. Tony's gut tumbles. What _are_ they trying to pull?

Ziva waves an impatient hand. "Put it away. We visited the _Edah_ today. One of the _mazkirot _told me Zellers was studying at _Ohr Somayach_—a yeshiva for _ba'alei teshuva_."

They nod. Tony understands and is proud. "What about the donations?"

"Tuition," she says simply. "Room and board. He was living in a dormitory-style apartment building with twenty other students. I spoke to the housemother and she said Zellers was polite, tidy, and a good eater. He kept to himself and rarely ventured outside the _beit midrash_ other than to do his weekly chores—butcher shop, bookstore, dry cleaner."

Yarmulke takes the paper she offers. His skullcap matches his button-down shirt. _Nerd_, Tony thinks. "What about the day he died?"

Ziva shrugs. "Purim celebration. He went to a _Megillah_ reading, lunch, and then afternoon and evening prayers. The _eim bayit_ said the boys went to Geula for a party around seventeen-hundred and she got a call an hour later that he'd been hurt."

Yarmulke and Baby Face exchange looks. Tony's neck prickles. "Is there an autopsy report?"

The Mossad guys look aghast. "No autopsy," Baby Face insists. "Jewish law forbids it."

He sighs. Jewish law is annoying. "Well what about the hospital report? Had he been shot? Stabbed? Beaten to death?"

"He was not taken to the hospital," Ziva says quietly. "His friends called the housemother."

He sat back and crossed his arms. "And that doesn't sound a _tad_ fishy to you, Zee-vah?" That sharp, furious look returns. He glares back because he has had _e_-goddamned-_nough _of this. "What kind of circus is this, anyway?" He stands and motions with his arms at Baby Face and Yarmulke. "We got you two skulking around with your fenced gold and snaky looks, and we got a bunch of ultra-hairy-something people doing everything they can to keep us from finding out who killed this kid. This _American_ kid." He stops ranting for only a second before his anger climbs again. "I want them all subpoenaed."

Ziva scoffs. "You can't."

"Then let _me _ask the questions instead of acting like some shady go-between."

She pulls back and her eyes narrow. "You think I have an agenda here, Tony?"

"I think you're far to willing to let these people play you."

She stands, too. They are chest-to-chest. He wonders, absently, if they are going to come to blows. "_Willing_?" she says lowly.

Tony stares, steady, but runs out of steam. _Elvis has left the building. _ He flops into one of the low armchairs. It's comfortable, at least.

Ziva dismisses him as she's done to Yarmulke and Baby Face. "I got permission from Gibbs to send you undercover. You need to be at _Ohr Somayach_ in time for morning prayers tomorrow."

He scoffs. "Oh, you finally agree to let me have some authority? How _kind_ of you, Ziva. How _generous_."

She ignores him. "His _chevruta_ was a young man named Jay Malkiel. I've already made arrangements for you to learn with him."

"Not so broken up about the death of his study-buddy, huh?"

She ignores him again. "You do not need to wear a wire. We do not think you will be in the position to need one."

"Good. This climate really dries out my skin. That tape would itch like crazy."

"And we'll be moving operations from here into an apartment in Mea Shearim."

He huffs and throws his head back. "Damn. I liked this place. The shower is kickass. Think the new place has a view of that gold dome-thingy by the _Kotel_? That thing is cool. Makes me think of Harrison Ford. _Indiana Jones and the Dome of the Rock_."

"No such film exists," Yarmulke says dryly. "We'll have your belongings moved while you're in _yeshiva_."

"What about you?" Tony asks Ziva. "What will you do while I become bar mitzvah?"

She flips through some paperwork. "You would have to be converted first. And I will be—"

"At Mossad headquarters," Baby Face interjects. "The Acting Director wants to see you tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred."

Ziva scoffs. "Not without approval from my senior agent."

He hands her a printed email with Gibbs' name at the bottom. "Already procured. We'll send Abaye to pick you up."

She goes stiff and silent. Yarmulke and Baby Face leave. Tony rises from his low seat and stretches his sore back. "I'm starving. Thinking about dinner?"

"No," she replies, but leads him down the block to another white-tile restaurant. The food is much the same as the night before—shewarma, salad, bread. Tony wonders if this whole country subsists on grilled meat and cucumbers.

"Hey," he wonders, mouth full of pita. "How come they're always bringing you jewelry?"

Ziva looks mildly embarrassed. "It's my mother's. _Was_ my mother's."

The pita turns to sawdust on his tongue. "Why the hell do theyhave it?"

She shrugs. "She left it to my father."

"Why," he asks again, but slowly. "Do _they_ have it?"

She gazes out at the street, at the running boys, at the after-work traffic, and shrugs again. "It was probably in the safe in his office."

"And you didn't think to take it when you came for his funeral?"

"No."

They fall silent. He pokes at a few cherry tomatoes and notices that she has barely touched her food. "What was she like?" he asks.

She blinks. "Who?"

"Your _mother_, Ziva."

The tiniest of smiles appears on her face. "Passionate. And a very good cook."

"Your favorite dish?"

"Shakshouka."

"Sha-what-ah?"

She watches two small girls play hopscotch. "Shakshouka. We had it for breakfast this morning."

"Oh, yeah. Pretty good stuff."

She orders something else from their gaunt, teenaged waiter. "Hers was better. Less cumin, and she added feta."

"Got any pictures of her?"

Her eyes wander. He follows her gaze from hopscotch, to traffic signs, to a man rolling the gate down on his textile store. Fancy rugs hang in the window until he pulls the door down. Safe. Goodnight.

"No, I do not," she answers finally, and takes a sip of tea.

. . . .

Tony tires of tossing and turning and throws himself out of bed. The bedroom is dark, the living room is dark, and there's no TV to flip on. He huffs and flops on the sofa, kicking one leg over the back. The dry air is hurting his sinuses and he thinks he hates Israel.

The front door creaks open and Ziva tosses a key on the table. He lifts his head. She sighs. She's always so damned _irritated_. "Why are you awake?" she demands.

"Can't sleep. Where were you?"

She flips on a small lamp. Her skin is glowing with sweat. "Running. I could not sleep, either."

"Worried I'm gonna screw up again, huh? Which is kinda weird, because I haven't _actually_ done anything wrong."

She gets a glass of water and perches primly on a dining chair. "Aside from making friends with a possible suspect? Aside from insulting me, my culture, my faith, my family? Aside from whining like a child for _two entire days_? No, Tony. You have done nothing wrong."

"I wasn't insulting anyone," he argues peevishly. Peevish. That's exactly how he feels.

"Fine, you _disrespected _all of those things."

"Because they're dangerous, Ziva. You told me those crazy religious people are bullies. Why should I kowtow to them?"

She shakes her head. "Prostrating oneself before anyone is forbidden."

He makes a sound of disgust and sits up. "All these Jewish rules are annoying."

That is the final straw, it seems. How fitting that the camel's back breaks in Jerusalem. Ziva goes quiet for a long time. Even her breathing is silent. When she speaks again her voice is small but so, so heavy. "Tony," she says. "These _chareidim_ and _chasidim_...they saved Judaism after the Holocaust. They survived the camps and the ghettos, and then they came here and welcomed more survivors of camps and ghettos. The taught them to pray, to find food, to get housing. They kept my people and my religion alive after all that death."

He sighs. He's getting a headache. "You give your life so that they can sit in their study halls and debate what kinds of fish are kosher, but they can't get past the length of your skirt."

She looks at him for a long time. There are deep shadows under her eyes. "It is what it is, Tony. Please try to be respectful when you're in yeshiva."

"I'll be polite."

She shakes her head. "No, it isn't about manners; it's about custom. _Derech eretz_. The way of the land."

"When in Rome?"

"Yes. Kiss the rebbe's hand, listen, focus. You're not studying for an exam, you're studying so that the messiah will come."

"Sounds urgent. What's the messiah supposed to do?"

"End wickedness, reward the righteous, rebuild Jerusalem."

"Ah. Think he can do something about the traffic?"

She gives him a tiny smile. It's a gift. "We won't need cars in paradise, Tony. _Shacharit_ starts in a few hours. Perhaps I should take you out to breakfast first."

"_Shacharit_?"

Her gaze is far away. "The morning prayer service. The afternoon is _mincha_ and the evening is _maariv_ or _arvit_. Remember those names, please. You'll need to know them."

He lies down again. "Should I grow a beard?"

"Do not shave. It's forbidden."

"Ugh," he grunts. "_Everything_ cool is forbidden. Shaving, movies, miniskirts, bacon cheeseburgers. Sucks. No wonder you moved to America."

"American Jews keep kosher, too, Tony."

"Yeah, but they gave us modern Hollywood and pastrami. I'd call that a fair trade." Ziva actually chuckles. Tony grins, pleased. _Finally_. "What does Mossad want from you?"

The laughter ends. She tenses again. Her eyes narrow. "Nothing I care to give them."

. . . .

He makes it through morning prayers just fine. He bows and turns pages right along with everyone else. Tony: 1, yeshiva: 0. There are a thousand names for everything: _shacharit_, _davening, tefilah_. He, too, has another name. _Anthony DiNozzo_ has become _Asher Disraeli_. Ziva filled out his enrollment card in precise Hebrew script. He sorta wanted to frame it.

He follows the crowd from the synagogue to the _beit midrash_. It's like a library, with tall, messy bookshelves and long tables. Some of the guys have already started in on their text. He knows they're supposed to study a portion of it together, then go to a lecture on what they've learned. _Redundant_, he thinks, and tries to match some text on the leather spines with the notecard Ziva has printed for him. _P'SACH_'_im, _she wrote in English underneath.

A pale, skinny hand takes a book from the shelf only inches from his face. "Hey," he complains. "I might need that."

A kid is attached to the hand. Leibel, only skinnier. His mother probably ironed his shirt this morning. "You Asher?" he asks.

"Yeah. Who are you?"

He takes Tony's hand and pumps it vigorously. "I'm Yaakov...er, Jay. Call me Yaakov, though. It's my Hebrew name. You start on the _gemara _yet?"

Did he? "Uh, no. Listen, I'm a training-wheels kind of guy."

Yaakov/Jay leads him to a table near the back of the room. "Yeah, me too. A lot of us are, so they got us an Artscroll Guide. It'll help." He hands Tony a small workbook, like the kind from grammar school. Good. Maybe he'll get through this without looking like a total fake.

"Where did you leave off yesterday?"

Jay sits, cracks his knobby knuckles, and grins. "With the _mishna_. You mind if I read aloud? I'm picking up some speed with my Hebrew and I like to practice."

_Saved_, he thinks. "Go right ahead. My reading is kinda rusty. Haven't practiced much since bar mitzvah."

"You'll catch up fast," Jay/Yaakov says, and begins to sway in his seat and chant aloud. It's kind of soothing, and Tony is tired. He's lulled into a stupor, but can act well enough to feign interest, to page through their Artscroll-thing at the right times, and to eavesdrop on the other learners around him. They're all at the same place, it seems. Something about a rabbi named Huna and four cups of wine.

There is little small talk despite the noise. Everyone is focused, intent. Learning for the messiah. _The Blues Brothers_. Elwood saying, _You see, we're on a mission from God, Mrs. Murphy_.

Jay/Yaakov jumps up suddenly. "Ok, I'm going to run to the _bayit-shimoosh_ before _shiur_. Why don't you head into the lecture hall and I'll catch up? Save me a spot."

Everyone else is getting up, too, closing their heavy books, tucking pencils behind their ears. Tony gets up with his books and his Artscroll Guide. The crowd funnels into an adjoining classroom, but movement near the opposite wall makes him pause. It's Yarmulke, dressed like everyone else in penguin-white-and-black. He hands another guy a handful of paper shekels and two photographs. Tony can see clearly that one of them is of Ziva.

He uses his phone to take five quick pictures and emails them to McGee. Otherwise, though, he is torn. Does he leave before the lecture and risk Jay/Yaakov looking for him? Does he sit through class and tell Ziva later? Does he text her now? He wouldn't even know where to meet her—they haven't even seen their new apartment.

Jay/Yaakov makes the decision for him. "Why didn't you go in?" he whines. "It's Rav _Kahn. _There won't be any good seats left."

Tony's mouth is dry. The find two empty seats in the back row, and he sighs in relief. Maybe he can shoot Ziva a quick text message, ask her to meet him around the corner.

"Hey, Tony. My _little friend_. Put your phone away before the _rebbes_ come out." He looks. Leibel the Cake Boy grins at him. "Cell phones aren't allowed in _maggid shiur_."

Dammit. He pockets his phone. Four rabbis filter in and take seats at a head table. A projector is turned on and a piece of the Hebrew text appears on the wall above their heads. The students all rise and are waved down.

"_Boker tov_," one says. Tony guesses it's Rav Kahn.

"_Boker tov," _the students chorus.

"Let's get started. Nachum, will you start with the mishna, please?"

Nachum's pants are too big around the waist. He has to hitch them up when he stands. He is, Tony notes, sitting next to Yarmulke. Their eyes meet and his rolling gut sinks like a stone.

"Thank you, Nachum," Rav Kahn interrupts. "Yosef, will you continue with Rabbi Huna in the _gemara_, please."

Yarmulke rises and begins to read. He is faster than Nachum or Jay/Yaakov, as fast as a rabbi, probably, and Tony grows nervous. Will the rabbis keep him busy long enough for Tony to slip out?

They don't. Yarmulke's turn to read turns into a question-and-answer session, and then everyone is speaking at once, shouting out answers, quoting chunks of text. Verbal cross-checking. Where are the refs?

Rav Kahn raises a hand and silences everyone. "I want everyone to stop here. This is _pilpul_. Hairsplitting. Go eat your lunches and start from the second _mishna_ when you're finished.

He takes his leave. Everyone rises again and they disperse. Jay/Yaakov slaps Tony's back. "Pretty exciting, huh? Who knew the Brisker _rebbe_ would let a bunch of _pishers_ like us go crazy over the _gemara_?"

"Yeah," Tony agrees. "Who knew, huh?"

"We're going to Aron's for lunch. Want to come?"

"Uh, no." He thinks fast. "I live close by. My wife said she'll make pastrami sandwiches."

Jay/Yaakov's eyes go wide. "She sounds like a real _balabusteh_. I'll see you after."

"Yeah, can't wait for that _mishna_."

A few other older guys are filtering out of the building, so no one really notices Tony sliding around a corner and out of sight. He pulls out his phone again, but slim fingers close around it.

"_Mazal tov," _Ziva says quietly. She is dressed like when they visited the _Edah_—in a long skirt and headscarf. "You made it."

He exhales roughly and reminds himself not to hug her. "You mind not doing that? Scared the bejesus out of me."

She quirks an eyebrow. "We need to talk." She puts a hand on his arm to steer him down the block, but a religious woman in a black headscarf gives Ziva a stiff whack on the shoulder. She scolds in harsh Hebrew. Ziva glares, but says nothing.

Something roars to life in Tony. "Hey! Don't touch her!" He puts a protective arm around her shoulders but she shrugs him off, growling.

"Do not do that."

He swings his arm out. "That woman just—" he turns, but she is gone.

Ziva shakes her head. "I should not have done that. It was a mistake. Come; our new apartment is on Chevrat Tehilim."

The new place is a sixth-story walkup in a narrow alley. The exterior is shabby, but the apartment is refurbished. Clean white. There is a long dining table and a big kitchen with two of everything. Tony knows about kosher and separating meat and milk. "Not bad," he muses.

Ziva closes all the drapes. It feels ten degrees cooler in an instant. She sits down and peels off her scarf. "Mossad says there is unrest in the Geula neighborhood. _Sikrikim _vandalized the bookstore Zellers frequented and the Brisker _rebbe_'s office."

He looks up. "He just gave a class at my yeshiva. Or...was there, anyway. Rav Kahn actually taught it. Sorta. And why the hell did that woman just haul off and hit you? And why did you let her?"

She glares at him. "_Shomer negiah_. Men and women should not touch in public."

That same rage roars again. He's the Hulk. "And that gives her the right to hit you? I call BS, Ziva. No way is someone allowed to hurt you for breaking some obscure religious ruling."

There's that _look_ again. That horrible, worried, wounded look. "I could have put her down in a second," she says quietly. "Why was Yosef at _Ohr_ _Somayach_?"

He shows her the pictures. "You tell me."

She flips through all five and frowns. "That is my photograph."

"Yep. I sent them to McGee. Waiting to find out more. What did Mossad _really_ want, Zee-vah?"

She slides away from him. Her guard goes up and up. A fortress. "They worry that the relationship between Mossad and NCIS will dissolve now that my father has died. They want me to...invest my own time and money in making sure that does not happen."

His gut tumbles in a totally different way now. Ugh. Is he going to puke? "And what if you don't?"

Her chin rises. "I told them it was not my place to do such a thing. I have had enough of them. We're going to see what is happening in Geula tonight, and tomorrow we will continue our investigation into who killed PFC Zellers."

Tony takes a stand. "No. I'm not going back there until I know Yarmulke Yosef isn't out to get us."

"We are building a cover," she argues. "You cannot just quit. You have not even talked to Zeller's _chevruta_ yet."

"The kid's a twerp. He had nothing to do with it. I'll bet Yarmulke's new friend did, though. I'm telling you, Zee-vah; my gut is—"

"Saying that you need to eat lunch and go back to learning." She goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a takeaway box: pastrami sandwich, fat dill pickle. His stomach grows. _Traitor_. "Eat, please. For me, Tony." Her voice is flat, her face blank. Pretty, but blank. "The least I can do as a _kollel_ wife is make sure my husband is fed."

. . . .

"The Chazal wrote, _Shok b'isha erva_. A woman's leg must be covered at all times. The knee and above must be covered front and back, even when sitting, standing, getting out of a car, or when the wind blows. That means skirts should be no shorter than four inches below the knee. _Shok b'isha erva_."

Leibel the Cake Boy stands up. "Rav Kahn, what about below the knee?"

The rabbi nods and worries his hands on the tome before him. "Below the knee should be covered by stockings of at least twenty denier."

Another man rises. He looks to be about Tony's age, though his beard is patchy like a younger man's. "A woman's arm is also _erva_ to the elbow. My wife should be _makpid _to cover below the elbow? What about her forearms?"

The _rebbe_ tugs his beard. "She need not cover the forearm _l'chatchila_, but you should not look at her forearm in a way that might give you _taavos_. Cravings. It's a man's evil inclination to be _taav_ a woman. You should keep your eyes averted and your thoughts only of Torah."

Tony blinks. This was beginning to sound like the victim-blaming of his early cop career. "Damn," he mutters. Jay/Yaakov gives him a look. "Sorry."

"Women are _tahara_," Rav Kahn continues. "Pure. They are precious like a holy Torah school. Should we leave a Torah uncovered? No, _chas v'shalom_. We cover it as a means to honor it. We guard our eyes against _taavos_ as a means to honor women."

Tony almost snorts. Was it _honor_ that compelled some stranger to lash out at Ziva for touching his arm? He drops his head into his hands and scratches his scalp with his fingernails. The damned yarmulke is making his head itch.

The rabbi's voice rises and goes shrill. "Tznius is why all men and boys over the age of three must wear _kippot_. We cover our heads before Hashem because of our _taavos_. Our cravings. God must remind us all the time that we are made _b'tzelem elokim_—in his image! The image of Hashem does not have _taavos_. The image of Hashem must always suppress his _yetzer hara_. He must do _mitzvot _with equal parts joy in life and a fear of heaven! We learn Torah because we are made _b'tzelem elokim, _and from Torah we learn _kol kevuda bas melech penima_. The beauty of the King's daughter is within. From there we learn that a _bas melech_, a _bas Yisrael_, must be _tzniusdig _at all times so that a man's thought may be _tahor_—pure. _A gut uvend_. May you all have such success in learning tomorrow."

Rav Kahn closed his book and stands up. The students rise, too, and the rabbis leave. Tony blows out a harsh breath. He gets it, now. All of it. And it is too damned much. "I'm going home," he says to Jay/Yaakov.

His jaw falls. "You're not staying for night _seder_? It's the Karliner _rebbe_'s _maggid shiur_."

"I'm hungry," he whines, and he is. The pastrami hadn't held up to Rav Kahn's endless ranting. "And my wife has stuff she needs me to do."

Jay/Yaakov nods. "Of course."

He walks home slowly. Ziva is tapping away on the laptop when he gets there. She is still wearing _tznius_ clothes—a long, narrow skirt, long-sleeved shirt, sandals. He finds himself hating her outfit.

"Do you know what I just sat through?"

She doesn't look at him. "I can guess, Tony."

"I just had a seventy-year-old rabbi tell me that you need to dress like an old librarian because my sexual urges are always out of control."

"Uh huh."

He sat heavily on the sofa. It is leather and squeaks beneath him. "I know I can be a pig, but I'm more than my libido, Ziva."

"Uh huh."

"You in jeans and a tank top isn't going to send me into a fit orgasms. I have self-control. You know that it reminded me of? _The Accused_. Jodie Foster, Kelly McGinnis. Sara Tobias ostracized after being gang-raped in a dive bar in New Bedford." He closes his eyes, pinches his brow. He doesn't want to see those scenes. "Victim-blaming. I saw it a lot in Baltimore in the 80s."

She has turned and is looking at him. Looking. Her eyes are wide and blinking and her small hands have clenched on her knees. Her skirt is wrinkling. He wants to smooth it out.

"Is this what you've always been taught?" he asks feebly. "That somehow your body has the power to turn me into some horny animal?"

She is blinking, blinking still, lips slightly parted, hands still tight on the india-ink fabric of her skirt. "We got a hit on the man you saw speaking to Yosef. His name is Avidan Smuchinsky. He's associated with _Sikrikim_. He was arrested in 2004, 2005, and 2007 for destruction of private property and domestic violence, and cited for menacing in 2010."

She hands him a mugshot. Yes, it's him. Yes, Tony's gut is tumbling and tumbling. He is not hungry; he is worried. "These Mossad guys are dirty."

She shrugs and looks and looks at him. "We need to go to Geula now."

He can only nod. "You talk to Gibbs?"

"Yes, we have the green light to do what we need to do. Warrants are waiting should we need them."

"Hey," he says quietly, and she looks and looks some more. "Let's be safe about this, ok? No stunts, no ninja moves. Cool?"

Her gaze does not harden. "Fine, Tony. We should go."


End file.
